


To Trip And Fall In Love

by RiotKid



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, American Dream Steve, Deaf Clint Barton, Football Captain Steve, M/M, Punk Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiotKid/pseuds/RiotKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The High School AU no one asked for (because we already have like a million)</p><p>Like ten minutes ago this was titled 'oops.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Trip And Fall In Love

Fury is honestly Steve’s favorite teacher. Honestly. On the first day of school he’d ripped a history book in half and proceeded to tell them exactly how he felt about the whitewashed, Eurocentric curriculum. It was amazing he hadn’t been fired.

 

Anyway, Mr. Fury is Steve’s favorite teacher. Or, at least, he was until he went and assigned this fucking project. It’s almost finals week and absolutely no one has time for yet another huge-ass paper.

 

And yet.

 

Here they are.

 

Steve could, theoretically, be fine with this last-minute assignment, but Fury didn’t even let them choose their partners. If he had, Steve could’ve worked with Tony Secret-History-Buff Stark. Or Natasha, who scoffs at the textbooks as if she’d been there.

 

But, no, Mr. Fury is a sadistic asshole- sorry, Mr. Fury- and assigned partners. Steve could, theoretically, be fine with this as well. Only, all his friends get paired off with people they at least sort-of know.

 

Steve’s name isn’t called until the end, and is followed by one he’s never heard.

 

“Steve, you’re working with James.”

 

As Steve’s opening his mouth to ask who, exactly, James is, a dark smudge against the wall moves.

 

“My name ain’t James,” the smudge replies testily.

 

Completely unfazed, Fury sets down his clipboard and sighs. “On this role, it is, Mr. Barnes. So unless you care to enlighten me as to what you want to be called, you’ll be called James.”

 

The smudge- James- scoffs, and reclines in his chair, crossing his arms with a glare.

 

Addressing the class as a whole, Mr. Fury announces that the last ten minutes of the period are to be spent choosing a topic.

 

Steve sighs, gathering his belongings and sauntering across the room to where James sits, stony-faced, against the wall.

 

Up close, Steve is amazed that he hasn’t noticed this boy before. Granted, the way he glowers from under his greasy hair is a little off-putting, but overall? Damn. Someone send his mom a fruit basket, she did a good job on this one.

 

When James remains frighteningly silent, Steve taps the end of his pencil against his lip and plasters a smile across his face. "So," he starts, fake-cheerily. "What should we do this paper on?"

 

If looks could kill, Steve's head would be incinerated. "The history and development of biotech and prosthesis," James grits out, thumb of one glove caught between his teeth, eyes daring Steve to argue.

 

" _Why_?" Steve silently curses his runaway mouth.

 

James' withering response is cut off by the bell, and he hauls himself to his feet. He scrawls his number across Steve's forearm and storms out, leaving Steve to appreciate the way his tattered jeans grip his ass.

 

He's snapped out of his reverie by Natasha, who smacks a kiss on his cheek and says, "C'mon, Cap. Save the drool for later, it's lunch time."

 

He manfully doesn't say anything about what he would _like_ to be eating.

 

+

 

Now that James' been put on Steve's radar, he sees him everywhere.

 

At lunch, he's across the courtyard, taking long pulls from a cancer-stick, the same way Steve remembers doing with his inhaler.

 

Staring too long makes his lungs twinge in sympathy, and something deeper in him twinge at every blissful, smoky sigh.

 

Steve's jostled by Clint, who drop-slides onto the table next to him, laughing at something Sam said. As always, their conversation is accompanied by dancing hands, and determined eyes.

 

Steve smiles, hands jumping to join in as he tells them about history.

 

Nat and Sam, it turns out, both know James. Sam knows him from JROTC, freshman year, before James dropped out. There'd been rumors, but Sam waves them all away, simply stating that James' dad had come back from the war- in a box, that is- and his mother refused to have another family member in the service.

 

Natasha refuses to elaborate, just saying that she knows him from “you know, around,” and proceeding to eat her lunch and ignore them, but she smirks in a way that leads Steve to believe that “around” involved a bed and some good times.

 

When the bell rings, Steve glances back at James, only to catch his dark, appraising eyes. And he may be imagining it, but he swears he sees the pierced side of James’ mouth quirk up in a smirk as he crushes his cigarette beneath a heavy, black boot.

 

Steve very, very carefully turns away.

 

+

 

Before Steve can even begin to consider calling James, he has to go on five mile run and chug a glass of chocolate milk. Even then, he leans against the counter, thumb hovering over the “call” button, lip caught between his teeth.

 

Finally, he tanks up, hits call, and slams his head into the nearest wall.

 

The collision stuns him enough that he doesn't immediately hang up when a smoke-dark voice asks, "hullo?"

 

"Hi," Steve bubbles, horrified at his own enthusiasm. "Is this James?"

 

The person on the other end of the line scoffs. "Yeah, it is. Why?"

 

Steve nearly sighs in relief. "It's Steve! From history? We kinda need to do that project and I've got football practice after school tomorrow and Nat's feminism club is on Friday, so can you come over on Saturday?"

 

"Football and feminism? God, you're America's perfect wet dream, aren't you?" James chuckles. "Yeah, I can come over. Text me your address, alright?"

 

Steve agrees, hanging up to type. He fumbles and almost drops his phone, pretending his rapid heart is from the run, not James' voice curling around the words 'wet dream'.

 

Strangely enough, he doesn't remember ever being uncomfortably turned on from running before.

 

+

Between getting his ass handed to him at football practice, almost starting a fistfight in Fem Club, and the daydreams that have him blushing even when he’s alone, Saturday sneaks up on him pretty fast.

 

Truth be told, in his haze of treadmill and _faster faster faster_ , he completely forgets about James and the project until he’s yanked out of his head by Libby barking at the door. He trips, crashing to the ground, and ends up limping across the house to answer it. Dragging Libby back by her collar, he pulls open the door to reveal James, rocking toe to heel, gloved hands jammed in his pockets, biting at his lip ring.

 

James smirks, dragging his eyes across Steve’s body, and it takes a moment before he realizes that he never put on a shirt, and he probably _reeks_ of sweat.

 

James slips passed him into the house, ruffling Libby’s ears on his way by. “How about this? I’ll keep myself entertained for a bit and you can grab a shower?”

 

Steve nods rapidly, pointing James towards the kitchen and telling him to help himself. He’s very proud of himself for barely stuttering.

 

+

 

When he gets back downstairs, he’s surprised to see James is still wearing his jacket and gloves. Even more surprising is the fact that he’s tousling with Libby on the kitchen floor.

 

Steve never would’ve thought that the mouth that pulls on cigarettes like a dying breath and cusses out teachers would be able to produce a laugh like that, but, damn, he’s never been so happy to be surprised.

 

At the sound of Steve’s footsteps, Libby leaps off James, nailing him in the gut with at least one paw as she rockets over to greet her owner.

 

After his initial _oof_ , James’ laughter fades into a soft smile, and Steve wonders how he ever found this kid intimidating.

 

Rubbing Libby’s ears until she huffs at him, Steve looks back to James. “Project?”

 

Shaking himself out of whatever reverie he’d been caught in, James rolls to his feet and starts rifling through his backpack, presumably looking for his notes.

 

Steve gives Libby’s ears one last flap, pressing his forehead to hers for a split second, before leaving the room to retrieve his laptop.

 

When he returns, James has covered the counter in pages and pages of painstakingly tidy notes and is carefully sifting through the strata.

 

Steve offers him an old book his dad’d had; something about Nazi experimentation with prosthetics and creating superhumans.

 

James reaches for it with his left hand, before flinching back and using his right.

 

Steve’s forehead wrinkles with confusion. “You okay, James?”

 

James laughs awkwardly. “My babysitter when I was little was this super old catholic lady, right? And I was a left handed little kid, and she said if I didn’t learn to be right handed, I’d go to hell.”

 

Steve’s jaw hangs open in horror. “That’s _awful_. Who would say that to a kid?”

 

“It’s kind of sweet if you think about it. Religion was all she knew and she was just trying to save my soul. It was fuckin’ weird and totally ineffective, but whatever, right?”

 

“What do you mean ineffective?” Steve asks cautiously.

 

James shoots him an almost daringly dirty smirk. “The flaming queers get to burn for all time, to hear her tell it. But, hey, I think I’m hot enough without the whole hellfire thing, don’t you?”

 

Steve turns bright red and stammers for a solid minute. James just shakes his head fondly and highlights another passage.

 

“So, there’ve been a lot of really cool breakthroughs recently. Like, a bunch of scientists and engineers from MIT studied professional dancers to get a better idea of the musculature they’d have to imitate.” James talks animatedly; his hands flying, eyes sparkling.

 

Steve is so, so fucked.

 

+

 

Later, they sit on the counter, legs swinging as they drink apple juice.

 

“What’re your plans for next year?” James asks.

 

“Art school, hopefully.” Steve blushes. “It’s dumb, right? Football captain wants to go to art school.”

 

“Nah.” James swishes a mouthful of juice. “Don’t let the patriarchy confine you, man.”

 

Steve blinks at him.

 

“You think you’re the _only_ feminist in the room? C’mon, kid, you’re better than that.”

 

Steve smiles, one of the self-depreciating ones that Nat and Sam have grown wary of. “Anyway, no, what are your plans?”

 

James huffs out a laugh, flexing his left hand as if it’s cramped up. “I wanna major in biomed engineering.”

 

“So you can design prosthetics?”

 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

 

“Why are you so interested in prosthetics?” Steve queries, curiosity overwhelming him.

 

The corner of James’ mouth pulls up in a bitter half-smile. “Someone close to me was in a really bad car wreck a few years back. He lost an arm and all the horror stories he had to share about the hospitals and physio, well, I wanna help, I guess.”

 

"That's pretty noble." Steve nudges him with an elbow. "A knight in shining leather jacket."

 

James laughs, full and loud and beautiful.

 

+

 

James spends ten minutes saying goodbye to Libby. She basks in the attention, while Steve's fingers ache for a pen. Eventually, James hauls himself to his feet, scratches Libby's noggin one more time, and heads outside.

 

Manners prevailing, Steve follows, only to find James straddling the most beautiful Harley that Steve has ever seen. James notices the way his eyes widen, and smiles.

 

"She's my baby. Straight from the scrapyard, torn apart and reassembled, just like me."

 

Steve wants to run his hands over every inch of both of them, but settles for letting his gaze burn into the glistening metal.

 

"Anyway, I gotta go."

 

Steve snaps back to reality, daydream of tracing James' fingers with his tongue vanishing. "Oh! Yeah, I'll, uh, I'll let you go, then," Steve flushes, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Have a good day, James."

 

James slips his helmet on, flicking up the visor to look Steve in the eye. "You too, Rogers. And, please, my friends call me Bucky."

 

And with that and a cloud of smoke, he pulls away.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu at riotkidofficial.Tumblr.com or just leaveme a comment. Tell me, should this be an ongoing thing? I fell asleep writing the notes. Woops.


End file.
